


Fitting

by esteefee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailor-Finch is making John a little crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Basting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Fitting (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137170) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> Translation available in 中文: [量体裁衣: Fitting](http://lzqsk.blog100.fc2.com/blog-entry-315.html) by [lzqsk](http://lzqsk.livejournal.com/).
> 
> I posted some GIFs on tumblr begging for MORE TAILOR-FINCH-RELATED PORN.
> 
> [Astolat responded](http://astolat.tumblr.com/post/42685128169/esteefee-why-such-a-dearth-of) with awesome! \o/ 
> 
> This is a follow-up to her piece.

[](http://esteefee.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2712/104599) [](http://esteefee.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2712/104850)

By the sixth fitting, John found he was turned on by the poke of the basting pins, the smell of tailor’s chalk. There in the hush of Finch’s study he submitted to Finch’s careful, deliberate touch, arousal burning under his skin, until the mere flicker of Finch’s fingers grazing his neck was enough to make John grit his teeth and start mentally stripping down an M249.

Turned out Finch was once again needlessly measuring his neck size.

“Usually if someone’s this close to strangling me, I at least have a knife on hand,” John said.

Finch raised an amused eyebrow. “I do have a pair of shears over there on the table.” He passed around behind John and tsked a moment later as he smoothed his hand high over John’s back. “Too many hours of surveillance, I suppose - you’ve ruined your posture, Mr. Reese.” Finch pressed firmly as if he could repair the damage of years in a moment. Then he drew his hands to either side of John’s shoulders - noting with his tape, John was sure, measurement three hundred and twenty out of an infinite total. The needles pricked John’s skin.

“Finch,” he said, voice urgent, but Finch just gave an amused huff and came back around, his fingers dancing over John’s shoulders, his thumbs meeting to stroke the skin exposed by the vee of his shirt.

John’s nipples stiffened in reaction. “I should be wearing an undershirt.”

“You’d ruin the cut for this particular set,” Finch said. “Believe me, the thread-count is more than adequate.”

John dragged in a breath when Finch drew his hands down over his chest, the edges of his palms brushing against John’s hardened nipples. “Ah. Uh. You sure about that?”

Both of Finch’s eyebrows were in on the action now, and his mouth was entirely too straight.

“Believe it. A good jacket hides a multitude of sins, Mr. Reese.” Finch stepped back, faint smile teasing his lips. “Well, that will do for the shirt. Why don’t we start the slacks?”

John hung his head and groaned.

 

_End._


	2. Precision in All Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is wearing less.

This should be weird, John thought as the silk lining of his jacket slid against the bare skin of his shoulders, his back, but he just planted his hands on the arm of the couch, the butter-soft leather giving pleasantly, and leaned over further to give Finch better access to his naked ass.

"That's perfect, Mr. Reese," Finch said.

At this point, John supposed, he'd stopped questioning the constant directives of Finch's gentle nudges and prods, but John had also waited ten fittings for this, and he held his breath as Finch lifted the tail of his jacket and slipped his hard, slick fingers inside him, quickly and precisely preparing him, one slim hand holding his jacket up at the small of his back. John's eyes rolled at the sensation of Finch's fingers hooking wide and then pulling out.

Finch's other hand dropped away, and John glanced over his shoulder and saw with amusement that Harold was wiping his fingers on a purple handkerchief the same hue as his tie. 

Harold folded it carefully and tucked it in his pocket, then dropped his hands to his belt, his eyes lowered. John looked away, staring down carefully at the patterns of the distressed brown leather, until once again the silk of his jacket was folded up and he felt Harold behind him.

"Are you ready, Mr. Reese?" Harold sounded gratifyingly breathless as he pushed his cock between the cheeks of John's ass. John winced at the tacky sensation of the lubed rubber, but nodded his head sharply.

"You know I am," he said, when Harold did nothing further.

"You do _seem_ ready," Finch said, the head of his cock right there, pressing lightly against John's hole, and John sank his fingers into the leather, gripping hard. It was that or shove himself back onto Finch's cock. 

"All right," Harold said, all indulgence, and finally, _finally_ pushed into him, opening him up slowly with his cock. John closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Harold's breathing, tight and controlled, as he pulled out and then thrust forward in precise motions. John's arms trembled in the effort to hold himself up and steady. 

As soon as Finch had filled him all the way, he pressed himself against John's ass as if he wanted him to feel the wool of his pants, the cold edge of his zipper, the leather tongue of his belt. As if he wanted John to be aware he was being fucked half-naked while Finch was fully dressed. John wouldn't be at all surprised, considering the lengths Harold had gone to to get him here. Ten fittings' worth. John smiled down at his hands.

As soon as he'd made his point, Harold pulled back and started thrusting—even, slow thrusts that made John start breathing hard, his eyes blurring. Harold's fingers were delicate points on his hips beneath his jacket, cool and particular, yet not clutching or greedy. They directed John to move, to sway into Finch's rhythm, to arch his back just a little until—yes, there—John nearly bit his tongue trying not to make a sound, but he tightened hard around Finch's cock, and Finch's rhythm sped, the end of his belt flapping against John's thigh.

John shifted his weight onto his right hand and started to reach for his cock, but Finch said, "Wait for it, and I'll make it worth your while," gasping between words. 

"Make it quick," John replied, even though each teasing thrust sped more urgency to his balls, and though he'd been waiting since they'd first started this dance. Something told him Finch really would make it worth it. 

Finch never lied to him, after all.

Finch's fingers tightened on John's hips, the only warning John received before Finch gasped and slowed, shoving into him hard three times and then sagging against him, a warm weight on his back. Then Harold gave a little sigh.

It was probably the closest they'd ever been, and John felt his chest grow tight with warmth, even as his balls throbbed, pissed at him. 

After a moment, Finch stirred, and John pushed himself up to help him straighten.

"No. Stay as you were," Finch said as he withdrew. John squeezed his cheeks together, feeling hollow and slightly ridiculous now still in this position, and his balls really did ache. 

But Finch was back a moment later, his hand warm on John's skin, and he rubbed his fingers down the cleft of John's ass. 

"What're you—oh." 

Finch's fingers were inside him again, more than two this time, it felt like, and his other hand was slick as well as it slipped between John's legs to fondle his cock. 

John dropped his head. He should really know better than to question Finch's methods. Because this was amazing, Finch's fingers thrusting in and out, while with his other hand he held John's cock, his thumb stroking under the head.

"You have...unspoken talents, Harold."

Talented wasn't the word. Finch's fingers were remarkable. Rubbing precisely and neatly in and around and over. And that thumb—who knew he could do so much with just his thumb? John's panting had taken on a distinct edge. His jacket was damp with sweat, and he could smell the chemicals they used to treat the materials, sharp like chlorine. 

Finch patiently played him, and the heat grew tight in John's balls until he stopped breathing and came in a swelling burst, a clenching release that made him drop to his elbows and hang his head.

"Oh, God," he said. 

Harold murmured something back, but John's ears were offline. 

"Huh?"

"I said, 'Worth the wait, I hope?'"

"It was pretty good." Hell, John's _toes_ were numb. But there was still something missing. He straightened with an effort and turned.

"'Pretty good?'" Finch said, indignant. John noticed with a smirk that Finch's glasses were a little fogged up. He was fussing with his handkerchief again, this time adding something from a tiny spray bottle. 

"Yeah. Just one element missing." John stepped forward—stumbled, really—and Finch put a free hand up as if to catch him. 

John leaned down and kissed the corner of Harold's mouth. When he pulled back, Harold was staring up at him, bemused, fondness curving his lips. 

"I suppose," Harold said, "perfection can be improved upon." 

John smiled. "What made you change your mind? You said it would be a couple more fittings, at least."

"As if you don't know." Harold finished tucking away the bottle and handkerchief and then plucked John's silk boxers from the desk where he'd tossed them. "A brilliant stratagem on your part—wearing these today."

They were purple. John knew how much Harold liked purple. "Now, Finch. You know an asset has to use every weapon at his disposal."

"Indeed, Mr. Reese?" Harold gave him an eyebrow. 

"Precisely." John took back the boxers and put them on under Finch's bright gaze. 

Well, John thought, that settled it. 

He'd have to order at least a dozen.

 

_End._


End file.
